Valse Sentimentale
by mimichanvalak
Summary: A certain spring day brings Victor Nikiforov, a once-Junior World Champion and Grand Prix gold medalist, famous for his infallible technique and notoriously ending his career at his prime, to the shy stuttering mess Katsuki Yuuri. And how a simple thing can be strangely life-altering. An AU more-than-slightly based on Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso/ Your Lie in April.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Yuri! On Ice.**

 **A/N: Those who have watched Your Lie in April would know what's happening. In case you haven't, I will try and explain all situations. It's not too divergent from canon, except the settings and circumstances (I guess that's what AU is about, I don't usually write AU, lol). I chose Detroit for a setting because I thought it'll be neutral plus Yuuri and Phichit can be roommates yay! Anyway, enjoy the story.**

* * *

Valse Sentimentale

* * *

I

* * *

Springs are beautiful in Detroit.

Daisies along the side of the roads like scattered specks of colour, brighter leaves, little sheets of ice still floating in the water - spring often brought in a series of surprises.

Like this one, right then, as Yuri Plisetsky asks him to come on a picnic. Asks? More like, begs, eventually threatens with his own shade of grumpiness. In any case, Yuri Plisetsky on a picnic is not a sentence one hears everyday.

"Who else is coming?" he has asked.

"That old hag Mila and that drama queen Georgi and a doofus who wants some attention."

A doofus who wants some attention. Going by Yuri's standards, it sounds like a really nice person.

"Okay, edgelord, I'll be there."

" _Are you mocking me again?_!"

So there he is, before a giant patch of green, in his jogging outfit (Yuri is going to be so mad, which made the idea all the more compelling), his brown poodle Makkachin woofing by his side, ecstatic about the large open space. He searches his pockets - he has an energy bar, if that can feed the five (five, is it? He thinks he forgot) of them for the whole day, his wallet, headset, and the parchment where Yuri wrote out the address (Yuri never texts him as he forgets to reply).

"Boy, all of them are late," he breathes in the fresh air. He lets Makkachin on its own and decides to take a walk around.

He screws his eyes and looks ahead. There is something going on under that cherry blossom tree. He closes in; there is a batch of children - three children to be exact - and a young man playing with them, more like, dancing under the falling leaves.

And suddenly it looks so beautiful he is stunned. The guy seems to be in his early twenties, younger than he is, Asian, his unruly hair falling over his forehead, his glasses catching the glint of the sunlight, his small laugh leaving a blush on his nose as his arms arch into a graceful pose.

He feels this urgent need to capture it as he pulls out his cellphone. And he does, a few, of the trees and of the kids and a slightly-blurred photograph of the young man, but before he can buckle up to get a better one, he finds himself at the centre of attention - the three kids are giving him a hostile glare, their arms akimbo.

"Excuse me," it is the guy with the glasses speaking, "Are you taking pictures of the kids?"

He passes into a deep shade of red, not sure what to say; just crosses his fingers and hopes the guy doesn't take him for a paedophile.

The guy is different now, as if withdrawn into a shell. He is quieter, a little embarrassed, and perhaps a little pissed. "It's impolite to take someone's pictures without their permission - "

"Oi, _piggy_!"

They turn at that; it is the whole club arriving - Yuri, the shortest of the lot, in his usual tiger-print hoodie shooting death-stares at Mila, the pretty redhead who is clinging onto his arm just to mess with him, and Georgi Popovich, who is walking with a careful distance from them, making sure nothing hurt his dramatic aura.

Wait, this guy with the glasses - is he the doofus Yuri was talking about? "Are you really going to call me that?" the new boy whines and snaps all the same.

Yuri smirks. It is time for introductions. "So you've already met Victor, huh? This is Mila," at that, if Victor isn't mistaken, he saw Yuri's expression change into a smug grin, "and that's emo Georgi. Guys, this is Katsuki Yuuri." So he's Yuri's namesake. That explains the heap of insults.

"Hi, Yuuri!" Mila is already onto him, as she ushers him to walk by her side, "Aren't you getting late for your competition?"

Competition? It seems everyone but Victor has an idea of what she's talking about. Yuuri checks his watch, and flinches, "Um, I... just a minute."

Apparently the picnic grounds are adjacent to one of the city's major ice skating rinks, where a local pair skate competition is supposed to be held in about an hour. As soon as Victor sees through Yuri's ploy, he seethes. Yuri is still smug, "Surprise, motherfucker."

"Maybe I'll wash your mouth and strangle you."

Unfazed, Yuri walks off proudly. As the group heads out, Victor realises he has fallen back with the other Yuuri, who right then is waving goodbye to the kids. In the meantime Victor finds Makkachin, and cuddles the dog in an attempt to distract himself from the ugly throbbing in his chest.

"They're actually my friend's kids," Yuuri explains, "The whole family's dropped in cheer for me in this competition."

"So you were practicing with them?"

"Yeah," he says, "sorry, I thought of you as some kind of creep -"

"It's okay, Yuuri."

He observes him. Yuuri is jogging at his position, rubbing his fingernails together, mumbling to himself, his forehead clamming up with sweat - far, far apart from the carefree first impression he just made for himself. Victor places a hand on his shoulder even as Yuuri jumps out. "Are you nervous?"

"Yeah. _Very_."

"Don't worry," he's awful at comforting, but tries his best, "You'll do fine."

"Maybe, um, you can lend me some tips."

For Victor, ice-skating is a long-lost friend. "Tips?" he laughs, "Me?"

"Why not?" he protests, though he's apologetic for suggesting it, "You're Victor Nikiforov. There's no one in the skating circle who doesn't know about you."

Victor wonders if that's true. To be honest, he doesn't care anymore. It's a part of a past he doesn't want to return to. He glances up and finds Yuuri staring deep into his eyes. As if he's searching for something, looking for a dousing rod. If he isn't wrong, he watches Yuuri's eyes sparkle, as if they hold a solution.

All of a sudden, it's Yuri making a return, panting for breath, and roaring out to them, "Oi, piggy! The competition's been preponed half an hour. Come on, your partner's looking for you, you're gonna miss your chance you dumbass!"

The moment passes and the gaze is broken. Yuuri looks down at his watch and almost lets out a pterodactyl screech, " _Shit_!" With it, he breaks into a hasty run and never looks back. Yuri follows suit.

It takes Makkachin almost knocking into his shin to realise Victor is simply frozen at his place, staring ahead. He is confused. He is fascinated. Maybe he _does_ care after all, who knew.

* * *

When he was still in business, Victor never used to shy away from media attention. He always had a smile on his face, no matter how exhausted, how broken he had been.

Right now, even as he finds himself a seat amongst the audience, the constant murmur about him (" _Is that Victor Nikiforov?" "Victor Nikiforov? You sure?" "Victor Nikiforov is here?" "Didn't he go into a hiding after the scene he made at the Grand Prix finals_?") enveloping him from all sides, grates on his nerves. He clenches his fists and decides to shake it off.

"Why are you snoozing?" Mila nudges Yuri, who has his arms behind his head and feet up on the seat before him, "If you don't respect your rivals, you're never gonna get far."

"They're not my rivals and I'm not interested. Let me sleep."

"You know, now that there are two Yuris, I think I'm gonna call you Yurio."

"What?! I came first, nickname _him_ you hag!"

Victor laughs, "Well, he's older than you so technically he came first, Yurio."

"That's _not_ my name!"

Mila plays along. "Why is Yurio getting so mad?"

"Shut up, shut up, _shut up_!"

They had to sit through four routines before Yuuri and his partner took the rink. The applause at the beginning dies down as the crowd watches on with bated breath. Victor glances around him; Yuri is awake and staring down at the rink with undivided attention. Mila cheers out loud, at which Yuri grumbles. Georgi shushes them down.

Yuuri has changed from that blue jacket he had been wearing when they met him. He looks strangely radiant in that black costume, his glasses off and his hair slicked back ( " _So sexy_ ," Mila fangirls beside him, much to Yuri's barfing noises). For a second, Victor believes Yuuri made eye contact with him. For a second, his heart skips a beat.

The music starts and Victor forgets to breathe. Of all the performances he has seen and done in his lost career, he has never seen one so bold. Every move Yuuri makes, every manner his arms flail and every way his free leg holds up is art. The ice is his canvas and he keeps lathering it with colours, bravely and carelessly. His dancing is so rebellious Victor has to restrain his own instincts to axel himself out into the rink.

That's when he notices Yuuri's partner is bogging him down. Their triple axel isn't in sync; his partner is out of tempo. The lift is faulty. Yuuri tries to recover the damage with a quad toe loop. Sure, a quad toe loop at a competition of this level is impressive, but doing it alone is hardly going to make a difference to the pair skate routine.

"Oh, this isn't gonna go well with the judges," gasped Yuri, voicing his thoughts, "Why does he have that _dumbfuck_ of a partner?"

"Language, Yuri."

Despite everything, Victor notices how pumped up the crowd is. Maybe it's the music; maybe it's the way Yuuri moves, as if his body composes the music. Maybe that's why noone can look away.

"Go, Yuuuuri! That was amazing!" Mila yells out of the blue as soon as the performance ends. She isn't alone at it, the whole audience seems to have gone bonkers - more on this routine than on any other. Yuuri seems content, waving at them, smiling, trying to cheer up his partner who was on the knees, dejected.

The score isn't too bad - they lost a lot of technical points and somehow managed with the PCS in spite of Yuuri's dancing almost being a giant "fuck you" towards the rules. As of now, Yuuri and his partner are ranking third out of the four pairs.

It is Victor's idea that they should go down towards the entrance to congratulate him. They find Yuuri right outside, the jacket and the glasses back, still skipping on his toes out of nervousness, surrounded by those kids he was with earlier, and a smallish cute woman and a brick-like man, perhaps their parents.

Victor wants to tell him a million things. He wants to tell him he was inspirational in the rink. He wants to tell him he screwed up one of the lutz combination because his technique was wrong. He wants to tell him he looks kind of pretty with his glasses on and the hair slicked back. He wants to tell him he did the right thing by not blaming his partner.

Even as Victor calculates when and how to step forth, his path is blocked by Mila, who has run ahead and reached out to hug Yuuri. Yuuri is alarmed, blushes a deep shade of red, but nevertheless accepts the hug.

Suddenly, the distance seems a mile apart. Victor turns his back.

Yuri is sniggering at something else, "That doofus has been asking me to set him up with that old hag. Guess they're set. Although I should warn him that Mila's a player..."

"D'you want to get a coke or something?" asks Victor, trying to ignore the strange lurching in his stomach. Something he ate this morning feels like regret now.

He guesses he has missed his chance.

* * *

 _From: Mila Babicheva_

 _To: Victor Nikiforov_

 _ **Victorrrr! Urgent!**_

 _From **:** Victor Nikiforov_

 _To: Mila Babicheva_

 _ **What happened now? :/**_

 _From: Mila Babicheva_

 _To: Victor Nikiforov_

 _ **Listen pls do me a favour. Pls pls pls**_

 _From: Victor Nikiforov_

 _To: Mila Babicheva_

 _ **Okay ^O^**_

 _ **What are you on? ._.**_

 _From: Mila Babicheva_

 _To: Victor Nikiforov_

 _ **Listen I was supposed to meet Yuuri but suddenly Sam's game gets cancelled and he asks me whether he can crash at my place I'm sorry I'm sorry can you please haul up Yuuri and NOT tell about this**_

 _From: Victor Nikiforov_

 _To: Mila Babicheva_

 _ **Are you cheating on Yuuri?**_

 _From: Mila Babicheva_

 _To: Victor Nikiforov_

 _ **Well I just met Yuuri last day so technically I'm cheating on Sam :3**_

 _ **Sorry, I know you're pissed but pls do this for me I PROMISE I'll break up with Sam this evening I promise**_

 _From: Victor Nikiforov_

 _To: Mila Babicheva_

 _ **Okay I'll try. -_-**_

 _From: Mila Babicheva_

 _To: Victor Nikiforov_

 _ **Thank uuuu :***_

 _ **Really sorry about this crap. Yuuri's too cute, I won't hurt him I promise :3**_

Victor scrolls past his conversation with Mila this afternoon, waiting outside the rink of the Detroit Skating Club, a twinge of annoyance making a vein at his temple pop. Mila is a cool person to hang out with; she's the captain of the local basketball team, and quite free to use her charms when it comes to dating - her most famous cross-country affair has been with the Italian Sara Crispino. Of course, it didn't end well. Maybe the four of them have gradually grouped together being Russians, but Victor has never approved of Mila's skill at breaking hearts. And certainly, he won't let her hear the end of it if she does the same to Yuuri.

"Yuuri!"

Victor waves at the oblivious Asian guy who has just jogged out of the building. He wheels at Victor's direction and his face brightens into a small, shy smile. "V-Victor?"

"Hi!" Victor chimes out happily.

"H-have you seen Mila?"

Crap. Victor realises he hasn't rehearsed anything, and desperately searches about for an excuse. "They're having a double shift because of this major tournament right about the corner," he babbles without thinking, hoping Yuuri buys it without further questions.

Yuuri's face fell a bit, but he doesn't look too disappointed. "She could've just texted me or something."

"Pity," Victor rolls his eyes. Something inside him is excited at the thought of it, even as everything else chastises him for being so salty. It's like a tussle between the angel and devil on his either shoulders. He adds, "I guess you're gonna have to hang out with me on your first date, Yuuri."

Yuuri chuckles at that, pink specks falling across his cheeks, "I guess so. Everytime you substitute as a date I'll call you Friend A. You wanna catch a movie or something, Victor?"

Till this point, Victor has been tugging at Yuuri's jacket sleeve, egging him to move on. As Yuuri laughs at his own joke Victor abruptly lets go and spaces out, point-blank, gazing at the wide street. Yuuri doesn't make anything of it, instead he walks ahead to hail a cab. It seems to be a busy evening. None stops. Soon, Yuuri is tired and tells him the breeze is nice and the multiplex is near. Victor simply nods.

He's _Friend A_. At the present moment, he isn't even sure if he's complaining.

* * *

 **This isn't my first fanfiction here, lol, I have another account, but the stories are incomplete so I feel too guilty about starting another there. :3**

 **Also, this story is gonna be a slow burn, so bear with me. I will not follow exactly the story I am basing this on, so um, *sweats nervously* I'll think of alternative endings. You'll be in for surprises, and lots of Viktuuri. He he. :P**

 **Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

II

* * *

" _Again_!"

Seventeen-year-old Victor spun on the ice like there was no tomorrow. His head was scrunched into a position that must've looked graceful from the outside but hurt in a way he felt as if his muscles were to rip apart. The next was the spin; the same damn programme again and again.

And _ta-daa_. It's over, it's finally over. He mumbled to himself, gasping for breath.

"Ridiculous, Vitya," the man at the side of the rink sneered, "Look at you. So weak. So fragile. You sure you didn't rig the final to get the gold? Now, now. Don't look at me like a dying whale. _Again_!"

Victor gritted his teeth. His left foot was burning with a large blister near the ankle. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and pulled his hair back into a messy bun, gliding across the rink to square one position. It was only yesterday that the GPF gala ended, and they had booked an immediate flight back. The rink was empty; all the people he had known – even within St. Petersburg – were out on vacation.

Then came another batch of yelling. "What do you think you are doing?! Come on, start over!"

Victor stared at the shadow of the man falling on the ice. It has been a while since Victor had stopped looking this man in the eye.

This man was his _father_.

Throwing back at the memories, Victor isn't even sure if he remembers his face. The man sure had an intimidating gait, that didn't stir even after he was confined to the wheelchair, tubes in his nostrils that helped him breathe, silver hair that didn't shine, and eyes – it's where Victor's memory got distorted the most – he had eyes like that of a demon: so red it almost dripped blood, and terrifying.

So terrifying.

* * *

"Victor? Are you okay? You look lost..."

He snaps back to reality. Yuuri is gazing at him over his glasses confusedly, as if he just watched Victor rise from the dead. It's half time at the movie, and people are struggling to get through the balcony, scampering to and fro. Victor scratches the back of his head. "Huh?"

Yuuri chuckles, "You're not really watching, are you?"

To tell the truth, Victor isn't even sure he remembers the name of the movie. "Let's get out of here," he suggests instead.

He wants to wonder if he saw a wheelchair in the movie that triggered his trance, but suddenly he's too busy observing the boy he is walking with along the pavement, passing countless lamp lights and cutesy shops. It seems Yuuri isn't much of a talker; there's no need of small talk to ease the situation – just watching his doe eyes light up at the sight of every certain shop passing brings in a strange sense of comfort.

Victor hasn't ever faced this before. People are always in search of constant validation, recurring pointless subjects just to keep that big fake smile on their faces, all the babble and chatter and ever-changing masks.

Yuuri is different. It's almost mystifying.

"Uhm, Victor," Yuuri begins, "You never told me what you thought of my performance yesterday."

Wow. All this time Victor wants to talk, but the moment the boy asks a question, he has so much to tell he is all of a sudden out of words. "It-it was really good," he does a double-take.

"Oh," Yuuri sounds a little disappointed, "Thanks."

"No, I mean - well," Victor has never struggled with words before, "It was really amazing. There were some technical faults but -"

He stops at what sounds like a little scoff from Yuuri. He prods, "What?"

"Happens everytime," says Yuuri, "All the reasons why I never medal at the Nationals."

He is underestimating himself. Victor protests, "That's not true."

"That's okay. I really don't care," he laughs lightly, "Hey, you want ice-cream?"

Victor remains unmoving against the lamp post even as Yuuri jogs ahead into an ice-cream parlour like it's almost what he has been looking for all his life. For some reason, Victor is so shaken he is almost unable to comprehend, much less the silhouette of the skater struggling with the door and two cones of ice-cream in either hand.

 _A skater who doesn't care if he doesn't win a medal?_

"Here," Yuuri hands him one, "Sorry, after I bought them I realised I should've asked you what flavour you want..."

"You can't _not_ care," Victor's mind is still stuck at the past beat. What Yuuri said is almost offensive; even if it has now become a part of Victor's life he doesn't want to associate with, it still stung. It felt as if Yuuri is spitting on twenty years of Victor's hard-earned glory.

Yuuri is a little embarrassed, "I didn't - I meant, it's the same thing all over everytime. Rules, regulations, repetition... you win one year and the next year someone else does, and no one even remembers you. Because of shit like this, skating itself loses its colour. I dunno, I just kind of baffles me."

 _You baffle me, Katsuki Yuuri._

"Who am I kidding though," Yuuri laughs as if he cracked an inside joke, "I don't really have the nerves to handle that kind of pressure."

How can this guy be so self-deprecating while shattering Victor's whole belief-system at the same time? Sometimes, Victor is too stunned to reply. He wants to listen. He wants to listen even more. Too bad Yuuri is a man of few words. Victor shrugs and paces ahead. "Where d'you live, Yuuri?" He tries to bring in other concerns.

"Right about the corner," Yuuri tells him, "It's a small apartment - _hey_ , you have ice-cream on your chin."

Before Victor can, Yuuri reaches out to wipe it off with his thumb. When their skin make contact, Victor can't help but sense a quiver of electricity; he sees those curious brown eyes look up at him, they're so magnetising he can't shift the gaze... what is this nonsensical feeling... what is this strange palpitation inside his chest; it's a force that is blowing him away, breaking him brick by brick, building him anew.

Bringing colour to his monotone.

"I should head back," Yuuri breaks the moment, and for the lack of a better response, pulls out his phone, checks it and grins, "Mila's on a texting rampage. Uh, hey, there's some kind of banquet like thing tomorrow evening at the skating club. I'll see you there, right?"

Victor nods without thinking, and watches the boy pass, strands of his black hair swaying along the strong wind, his glasses flashing against the lamp light.

This spring sure is different. The kind that comes once in a lifetime.

* * *

"Oh, sure. When I asked, you said you have better things to do." Yuri grumbles under his breath, struggling with his bowtie and pulling out rough threads from his cuffs.

"I said yes, I couldn't take it back," Victor reasons sheepishly, "Look at you, putting in all the effort. D'you have a girlfriend at the club?"

"Shut up."

"Boyfriend?"

"Hey, fuck off, maybe?"

The party is at the club's community hall; it's brightly lit and playing jazz and bustling with people. Victor shows his guest card at the door, his heart pounding at the thought of facing a piece of his past again – so many skaters together in the same room, talks about scores and routines and the ice, et al; the last time he entered a competition, he wasn't in a mental state good enough to attend the after-party.

 _That_ competition.

"Victor!?"

When he turns, he is legitimately abashed. Just when he is reminiscing about it, he catches the attention of one of his former rivals, one of the many hundreds who witnessed him stop in the middle of the music, fall on his knees and start bawling like a child under the spotlight, five years ago.

"Chris! Haven't seen you in a while," Victor stretches out a convincing smile.

"Same here," the blond guy with an undercut, known for his notoriously sexy skating programmes, flutters his eyelashes even as he talks, "Since when have you been loitering in Detroit? I thought you're still at St. Petersburg, nice retirement life and all."

Victor has done everything to escape that past, that hell. "Almost a year," he answers.

"In the skating circles again, huh?" Chris smirks, "What are you thinking? Joining the association, or maybe coaching that Russian kid? He's really good. Though it hasn't been the same since you're gone..."

" _Yuuri_!"

It comes out automatically as soon as Victor notices a figure entering the hall, over Chris's shoulder. Yuuri looks the direction his name is called at; he is wearing a grey suit and a blue tie so unfashionable Victor thinks it should be burnt in a bonfire. For some reason, he doesn't seem to be his usual self; he seems dejected, even as he coldly turns his back and walks the other direction.

It pricks like a needle _. He didn't even wave_.

Yuri joins in from nowhere, a slice of pizza in his hand, and voices Victor's thoughts, "Jeez, what's up with the piggy?"

* * *

This party is such a drag.

Even more so because word has spread that "Victor Nikiforov is here," and people can't stop hogging at him. It feels like a dull, endless, pointless journey, from people to people, putting on countless appearances, fake smiles, talking of things he doesn't want to be reminded of. By the end of it, he is sitting at the bar counter, exhausted.

Somewhere between his ordeals, he has glanced at Yuuri's lone figure at a corner bingeing on champagne. He wants to ask what the deal is, but right now Yuuri is nowhere to be seen.

"I can't pass for nineteen?!"

Victor turns his head. It's Yuri, his arms akimbo, furious over something. It takes a second for Victor to realise Yuri is genuinely asking him.

"You're fifteen. You get called by Yurio. You like to wear cat headbands in your spare time. _Wait_ ," Victor screws his eyebrows, "are you trying to get a hand on the liquor?"

"Nah," he sighs, "It's a guy – _what's going on over that side_?"

Victor peeks ahead. Across the hall at the other side, right under the chandelier, there is a pole (it wasn't there before, was it, Victor can't possibly remember), there is a curious crowd, and right before them is a very excited young man, animatedly narrating something.

"Yuuri?!"

Maybe the sound reverberates in that hall, or the distance isn't as much as Victor assumed, because the man happens to have heard it and is now walking towards them. It is, indeed, Yuuri. But his blazer is gone, the knot of his tie is loosened, he has a bottle of champagne in one hand and is grinning for no reason.

 _Oh no, he is drunk._

"... And that... that is how my career ended... partner dumped... career ended," he is practically slurring at this point.

"What the hell, pig?!" Yuri yells at him.

"Pig? Who you calling pig, huh, chickpea? You... think you better...? You think... you have moves... lil' kitty?"

Unfortunately, it doesn't take a lot to rile up an already riled-up Yuri. "Are you actually challenging me?"

Yuuri laughs, "Yeppp."

" _Arrgghrrrr_..."

"Skate off! We'll skate off! _Nononono_... No ice here. _Whatta_ shame. Dance off, then!" Yuuri is absolutely stoked at the idea, even as he points to a random guest in the crowd, "You, yes, _you_ , can you please get the music louder? We are... -hic- about to have a dance off right now."

"Tch, I'm not embarrassing myself," says the kid Yuri. Although his fiercely pulling off his coat and handing it to Victor and stepping ahead tells otherwise.

"So the Russian punk chickens out. _Anyoooone_ else?"

The next thing Victor knows is the glorious spectacle of the two Yuris trying to outdo each other at hip-hop in front of a partly-cheering, partly-shocked crowd. Competition after-parties are supposed to be boring, formal affairs. This kind of craziness is usually... not allowed. If only that'll stop them.

What makes it even funnier is that Yuuri seems to be low-key stripping with every big move without even realising it. Victor pulls out his cell phone immediately _. Click click click_. This is too fun to not join.

Eventually Yuri runs out on stamina. The Japanese is the clear winner, and only if he stops at that.

"Sweet Moses, it's my turn now!" It is Chris this time, and to everyone but Victor's disbelief, Chris has already thrown his shirt and trousers aside, flexing his muscular biceps and challenging Yuuri to get on that pole. That pole. Is that a makeshift pole? Did Chris bring it hoping something like this will happen? Victor knows Chris too well; he can totally buy that theory.

Down and defeated, Yuri is now scandalised at the sight before him. "What... the... actual fuck... is going on?"

Victor probably doesn't even register his words; he watches Yuuri and Chris climbing onto that pole, stretching out into poses even as the current dance-off transgresses into a partnership instead. He stares at the Japanese boy, now only in a tie and boxers, holding up Chris's body and his own by a mere arm, his eyes narrowed into a seductive smoulder.

 _This crazy, sexy, no-holds-barred party animal is the same guy who was struggling to put his thoughts into place last evening, isn't he?_

"It's ... my turrrn now," Yuuri announces loudly; the tie has somehow reached to forehead, tied about like a bandana. "I challenge..." he is looking around for options while someone hands him back his shirt, "I challenge you, Vic-Victor Nikiforov!"

 _Oh, shit, he's pointing at me._

Suddenly, Yuuri makes a U-turn and begins to walk towards him. Victor stands frozen, as if his feet are glued to the floor, his heart thumping like it will crack out of his ribcage. Yuuri breaks into a laugh; his eyes are wide and full of wonder even as he launches himself on Victor, hanging by his neck, rubbing himself against his body.

"Victor - Victor Nikiforov - I'm your biggest fan, Victor. You're my friend, aren't you, Victor? You're Friend A," Yuuri chuckles, staring into him. He's reeking of alcohol; he brings his face so close their noses are almost touching, "You'll dance with me, right? My family runs an onsen at Hasetsu, you'll visit us, right? If I... if I -hic- if I win this dance off, you'll be my coach, right? _Be my coach, Victor_!"

Victor gasps.

Katsuki Yuuri.

Katsuki Yuuri is a nervous stuttering mess, often moody, tactless, even cold – insane, seductive, shamelessly brazen when drunk – he cannot leave a good first impression to save his life. But he is breathtaking. He is beautiful. And he is making him an offer to return where Victor has forbidden himself to, in a manner he can't refuse.

 _God, Victor, you are in deep, deep trouble_.

* * *

 **Sooo I've been searching about for ideas, and I guess I have some ideas now about how to go with this story. I'll try to upload chapters faster, I've been really busy, college and whining about being nowhere in life, lol. Tell me how it was!**


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